


Bereavement

by doctorwhoatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Dark John, Knifeplay, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorwhoatson/pseuds/doctorwhoatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People had always worried about the wrong psychopath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bereavement

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on a drabble I wrote on Nicky's askbox a long time ago ( http://amygloriouspond.tumblr.com/post/31572523465/dear-lord ):
> 
> "I couldn't bear the idea of you being dead. For three years I thought every day would be my last. So many times I stared at my gun, the knife, the rope, the roof. But then I realized how stupid it would be for me to take my own life. So stupid because I knew you were alive. Out there. Somewhere. But you still never came. So I decided to look for a way to lure you back here. What better way than this?" John Watson smirked, knife in hand, a pile of bodies at his feet. "Welcome back, Sherlock."
> 
> It was also translated to German by the wonderful itami86.tumblr here: http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/4f8c54520000a6f506713c6a/61/221B-Confectioner-Street
> 
> This story kind of follows up the drabble.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was dark and dirtier than his usual locations. Sherlock could only conclude that his running space was growing short.

It was a tiny room. There was neither bathroom nor kitchen. Sherlock had noticed both outside, as shared spaces between everyone in the building. The only things in the small space, other than the single bed tucked at the corner of the room, was a small (broken) TV and a box which contents seemed to have barely fit inside.

The detective wrinkled his nose as he approached the latter. He had, of course, deduced what was inside the moment he first entered the room, but he wanted to see. Wanted to see his work.

He reached out his hand.

Then stepped back.

No, he couldn’t see. He could deduce it from afar; deduce how he got it all to fit in the box. It was average-sized, and there weren’t many ways to make a body fit in a box.

He could simply deduce it without opening it.

And yet…

He traced the edge of the lid with this finger.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Tends to ruin the mood.”

Sherlock let it go and turned to the voice.

John.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Sherlock said after clearing his throat. “You’re getting better.”

John smiled and took the few remaining steps towards the taller man, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Sorry I couldn’t find us a better place this time. Apparently I’m not the only one getting better.”

Sherlock nodded. It was true Scotland Yard was getting better. Particularly Lestrade. He could see it in his eyes every time he looked at him. Betrayal, hurt, anger. He knew. Of course he knew. It had been obvious to everyone who had known John Watson. But still he kept quiet, never asked him about it, never said a thing. Just continued to do his job, hoping his suspicions would someday prove right. The only times they talked anymore was when it was case related. After Sherlock gave out all his observations, Lestrade would simply nod and walk away.

Sherlock never would have guessed how much he would miss the detective inspector’s silly, short talks.

Lestrade would never give up until John was in a cell, or, Sherlock deleted it every time the DI would give him that warning look after arriving at the murder scene, dead. It also didn’t help that Mycroft was refusing to help anymore.

 _“I am not risking my job, all I have worked for, for a criminal, Sherlock. A_ murderer _!”_

“Come back,” Sherlock whispered against John’s neck, sliding his hands around John’s waist.

John smiled, not saying anything. He didn’t need to say it; they both knew it already. He could never go back to his previous life. Not after everything he’d done and everything he couldn’t stop doing.

“You smell nice,” he said instead, nuzzling at Sherlock’s shoulders and neck while slipping off his coat. “You always smell so nice.”

Sherlock held him tighter. John didn’t smell like he used to. Wool, tea, comfort… Now he smelled of damp, death and fear.

He missed John’s old smell so much.

“Hey, it’s alright,” John whispered, framing Sherlock’s face with his hands, encouraging him to look at him.

Sherlock did and could barely contain the sob stuck in his throat.

“It’s okay,” John pulled him into a soft kiss. “It’s okay, love.”

It was not. It was never okay. Nothing had ever been okay since John left. Since John had snapped. And it had all been Sherlock’s fault, no matter how much John tried to tell him otherwise.

_“It would have happened anyway, Sherlock. You know it. I know you could see it.”_

Yes, he’d seen it. Several times, actually. He just never could put into words what _exactly_ he had seen. He had just known he wanted to keep it controlled, lock it in the deepest, safest place inside John’s mind. He had even hoped he could make him forget about it; delete it. Give him a life he loved so much he wouldn’t have a chance to look at himself too closely.

He had failed.

The moment Sherlock’s limp body collapsed against the concrete, the John Sherlock had fought so hard to keep died. The detective had watched from the shadows, the look John gave to his grave. Lost eyes, fingers twitching…

People had always worried about the wrong psychopath.

He tried to bring him back at the same time he dismantled Moriarty’s web. He sent vague clues, shifted things around him, posted silly things on John’s preferred newspaper. It wasn’t long before John connected all the pieces.

But that didn’t bring him back.

It just made it worse.

“Hey, come back,” John whispered, effectively getting Sherlock out of his mind and back to the man peppering kisses along his jaw. “I don’t have much time, you know.”

Sherlock nodded, turning his face towards his lover’s until their lips met. They kissed slowly, letting their hands roam free over the other’s clothes. It was not until John’s hand slipped under Sherlock’s shirt that they deepened the kiss.

They didn’t have sex every time. Sometimes they just kissed; sometimes they just cuddled and talked. It depended on what John had done this time. Some crimes forced him to disappear for long periods of time, to hide in the darkest, most dangerous corners of the country, being chased by every official of the law interested in being the one to catch the great John H. Watson.

They didn’t say it, but they showed it in the way they desperately ended up crawling at each other’s skin: Any day could be their last together.

The box at the corner of the room told Sherlock what kind of meet-up this would be.

“There’s no blood on the box, it’s not even soggy…how did you do it?” Sherlock gasped as John threw him onto the old, squeaky bed and straddled him.

“Drained, a bag,” John answered, quickly ridding the taller man of his shirt and zipping his trousers open. “Not easy, but I’d been experimenting.”

Sherlock nodded, not really wanting to hear how, or rather who with, he had been experimenting. He had enjoyed it, before. Listening to his lover describe his crimes to his ear as he fucked him. Sometimes he still did it, when Sherlock was unable to deduce everything (John was getting really, really good) or when John was just really proud of his work.

Sherlock dreaded it now.

If Sherlock had once doubted John’s story-telling skills, he didn’t anymore. There were times when he would get so detailed in his murder stories that Sherlock would dream of it. John’s hands and face covered in blood, a crazy smile on his lips as his victim died in his hands, choking on their own blood.

He once dreamed John made him drink it.

_It will bring some colour to that pale face of yours._

John dipped his hand into his pants and Sherlock moaned.

“You are thinking too much,” John murmured as he wrapped his rough, calloused hand around Sherlock.

“It’s what I do,” Sherlock managed to gasp out between pulls on his cock.

“And you’re brilliant at it,” the doctor grinned, “but I’m not letting you retreat to your mind palace and leave me alone out here. Not when there’s so little time.”

Sherlock bit his lip, swallowing back another moan as John swiftly pulled his trousers and pants down and off, leaving Sherlock completely naked under him.

_You look so good in red._

“Stay with me now,” John whispered before dipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, sucking every moan and whimper as he pressed and circled his lover’s erection with his own still clothed one.

“Do you have it?” John gasped, letting go of Sherlock’s almost bruised lips, hips still rolling viciously over Sherlock’s. At Sherlock’s jerky nod towards his discarded coat, John quickly got off his lover, giving the taller man a few moments to properly breathe before he was on top of him again, completely naked and with a bottle of lube in his hand.

“Up,” John growled, the sudden skin-to-skin contact making them both groan.

Sherlock raised his legs and hooked his ankles together behind John’s neck. The detective felt so exposed...so open. John licked his lips as he uncapped the small bottle.

It would always start like this. Normal.

They would kiss, lick, bite; pull, stroke and scratch. Both would become a mess of limbs, each searching for a way to get the most pleasure they could for themselves and their partner. Just like any other normal couple.

But if there was a thing everyone knew about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was that neither of them was normal.

The glint of the knife was all Sherlock saw before John had pulled out of Sherlock and turned him face down onto the uncomfortable mattress. He pulled his head back by the hair and pressed the sharp edge of the knife against his throat.

Sherlock was not surprised.

This was how John was now. He couldn’t do anything without the need to see blood at the end of it all. Every time he would cut him somewhere, sometimes with the intention of leaving a scar, and sometimes just to see the red against the pale tone of his skin.

Sherlock didn’t mind.

Not anymore.

The first time had been….[deleted].

It was fine, though. All fine. John did it with the precision of a surgeon and always made sure not to hurt Sherlock, always made sure he never went too far.

Sherlock knew that wouldn’t last much, though.

The first drop of blood reached his chest at the same time John slipped himself, slowly, inside Sherlock again. The detective groaned.

“You feel so good,” John breathed in Sherlock’s ear, still holding his head up by the hair. He raised the knife, tracing the tip of it across his neck, chin, cheekbones and finally under his eyes, where he caught a tear with it. “Shh, it’s alright.”

Sherlock whimpered, the edge of the knife slowly tracing his face. He would never admit it, but sometimes John could scare him. Because Sherlock was sure that, some day, he would look at him with _that_ smile and let the knife sink in deeper than usual. The detective somehow knew John would end him. Not today, definitely not next month (he was pretty sure he would survive at least one more year) but some day.

He could see it in his eyes, in his smile...in the way his fingers twitched every time Sherlock refused, yet again, to join him.

“Come with me,” John whispered, lowering Sherlock’s head back onto the mattress and holding it in place, fucking him slowly from behind. “You know they know. As soon as they have enough proof they will lock you away.”

Sherlock groaned at a particularly hard thrust and fisted his hands on the sheets.

“I can’t,” he breathed.

John didn’t say anything. Instead, he placed the tip of his knife between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and cut.

Sherlock bit back a yelp.

John didn’t speak again, instead occupying his mouth to suck and lick at the small cuts he made across the lean body under him. Sherlock could only whimper and groan, trapped in between the mattress and John; between the lines of pain and pleasure.

It was a short while after when John’s thrust started gradually becoming more and more forceful. Finally, and Sherlock was more pleased than he dare admit, John let the knife drop to the floor and raised Sherlock’s hips into the air.

It was all he could do not to scream as John started pounding into him, holding his hips with one hand and pumping his cock with the other. Sherlock gasped and panted, the serial killer taking him completely yet again.

He had come to love it… the thrill, the danger of being in the same room with this man; the way John would always take complete control of him and leave him a mess.

The cuts over his body burned as sweat drops slid over them. John bit at his ear, his neck, his back, anything he could reach with those marking teeth. It was all too much and soon Sherlock was spilling into John’s hand, leaving him exhausted and limp under John’s still thrusting movements.

He must have passed out for a couple of minutes because he didn’t remember feeling when John came into him, or when he slid off of him.

He blinked.

“Are you alright?” John asked, and Sherlock noticed the shorter man was already dressed and... leaving. “When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep? Or proper meal for that matter? You’re so thin.”

Sherlock gave a weak shrug of his shoulders and sat up, grimacing when he noticed the lower part of his body was covered in semen. He felt the slow trickle between his buttocks too and dreaded standing up.

John smirked and tossed a piece of cloth towards him.

“It used to be his shirt,” John commented with a small jerk of his head towards the box.

Sherlock froze and looked at the now damp piece of cloth. “And you tell me that now?”

John shrugged.

“Do you want me to get caught?” Sherlock asked, pulling on his clothes as swiftly as he could. “My blood on the sheets, my semen on the victim’s clothes?”

John shrugged again, this time with a smile.

“Will you escape and join me? If you became a fugitive too?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He knew he would get caught soon. Mycroft could only do as much when he had all Scotland Yard just looking for enough evidence to finally throw him into a cell. Sherlock was lucky John made sure not to connect anything he did with him, but one could only be too good. Especially when he knew John was running out of patience.

He could do it. Just go with him. Both would be unstoppable.

 _“We could be the next Moriarty,”_ John had once suggested, and Sherlock had shuddered.

He was just making time. He knew John would find a way to make him follow him; it was inevitable. But he didn’t feel…ready. Not when Sherlock still felt like kneeling in front of John and let him shoot him in the head. Sherlock had still not forgiven himself for leaving him all those years ago, for jumping off that damn roof. John had. Not long ago, as they had laid on a crappy hotel bed. He had whispered his forgiveness to his ear.

But it didn’t matter. Every time he saw John and what he had become because of him, he would remember. That empty look as he watched his grave, that empty smile he had had when Sherlock found him in their flat, holding the bloodied knife he had used to slice and cut; to chop and kill all those people at his feet.

Moriarty’s dead eyes and torn body still haunted him every time he dared close his eyes.

John slipped his arms around the detective from behind and kissed his neck. “Stop thinking.”

Sherlock tried.

He failed.

“I have to go now,” John said as he breathed in Sherlock’s scent. “You better take the sheets and burn them.”

Sherlock hummed, taking John’s hand, full of death and pain, and kissing it lightly. He didn’t dare look at his face.

John didn’t say anything. Not how much he missed being the person Sherlock once had looked for for comfort, nor how much it hurt him every time he would refuse to meet his eyes before parting ways again.

John guessed that as long as Sherlock kept turning up in the locations he left hidden in his crime scenes, then everything was okay.

The ex-soldier placed a last kiss on Sherlock’s nape and turned to the window, already planning the next puzzle that would bring Sherlock to his side again.

Sherlock listened to him go, wondering when John would decide to finally cut deeper.

Neither looked back as they walked away from the building, sirens echoing in the distance.


End file.
